When I was about 15 years old, I went with my family on a trip to Germany. We visited long-lost cousins in East Berlin, and my penpal of two years and her wonderful family in a gorgeous village straight out of a fairy tale. We took a picturesque train ride through forests down to Bavaria, where we visited the Hofbräuhaus am Platzl and saw the Glockenspiel in Munich. We also went to the former concentration camp in Dachau, which has been turned into a museum and memorial.
My father is first generation German-American. He was born in 1947, only a few months after his parents had arrived in San Francisco. German culture remained prevalent throughout their home lives, via language, food, and art, and my grandparents went home to Berlin every year or so to visit friends. They loved Germany. When my grandmother passed away and I moved into her home, I wondered aloud if her spirit would stick around for a while, and my mother replied that, no, absolutely not; Oma would high-tail it back to Berlin as soon as she could.
During the war, my grandparents lived in Theresianstadt, where they gave birth to twins. After the ghetto, they were taken to Auschwitz. I've been told they were very lucky because they were young and healthy. They were rarely beaten, my grandmother was never tattoo'd, and they made it out alive.
The second time I visited Germany, I spent three weeks with my penpal Sarah and her family. It was then I decided that I would live there at some point during my adult life. Everything made sense to me. I felt comfortable with lack of pretense in social interaction. I agreed that strangers should be polite and straightforward to each other, but friends could be downright cuddly. The food was fresh, delicious, and wholesome. The trees surrounding Sarah's town were greener and thicker than all I've seen in the Pacific Northwest, and when night fell, the stars were unlike anything I'd seen before or since, and I won't even describe them because it wouldn't do justice. I loved the movies I saw, the music I heard, the clothing, the hair, the air, the clouds, the people. I felt like I belonged. I fell in love.
My grandfather believed he had a guardian angel watching over him. He was saved from extermination on one or more occasions, for seemingly fated reasons. He and my grandmother were reunited, and some of their valuables and family photographs were saved for them, by their gentile friends. They were able to come to San Francisco with no money, and build a successful life for their family. They started from scratch. They moved on, but were never released from their experiences.
I was raised well-aware of the horrors my family dealt with during WWII. My grandfather wrote a memoir. My grandmother mourned the loss of their twin girls everyday for the rest of her life. They both suffered from diseases and illnesses (Paget's disease, macular degeneration, and rickets) probably caused by their prolonged sun exposure and starvation. I knew I was safe in my home in Alameda, but I always thought (and I mean "always" as in "everyday") thought, What if???
Dachau was bigger than I thought it would be. The mass grave sprawling the area of entire camp nourished the earth, resulting in overgrown trees and flowers, creating a harsh contrast against the barracks, gas chambers, and chimney stacks; begrudgingly beautiful. The Nazis were meticulous in their documentation, and the walls were covered in their black in white photos of guards, prisoners, and corpses. None of the guards looked over 20 years old. None of the prisoners looked human.
Growing up, I was assured of my safety because we were American. America is the largest and richest superpower in the galaxy, and since we have the biggest weapons and the respect of the world, no one would even think of infringing on our rights or freedom. In the back of my mind, I would think about Rome or Greece, and know that little Greek and Roman kids were told the same thing growing up, and look what happened to them. But, I felt safe, because I was indeed America, and our government loves its citizens.
Little by little, my illusion of safety whittled down until, not that long ago, I awakened to the lies that were being fed to me--to us--on a daily basis. We're not safe. The world will not kowtow to our terrorism. I felt my tiny bubble burst and I realized I was lying to myself, too. Things were getting worse, I thought, and I was scared.
For the past decade, one specific image from Dachau has haunted me. I think about this photograph daily, sometimes hourly. I never mentioned it until last week, when I couldn't handle it anymore, and blurted it out to Derek during an episode of Corner Gas. It hurt. I didn't feel better. I cried, hard. The image keeps running through my head, and in my imagination, I try to twist it around and encourage the torture victim to escape. Just swing your legs around, I mentally scream. Get out!!!!! I can't make it stop.
I think I'm haunted more vigorously these days because I don't feel safe anymore, and because I understand that these atrocities only happened 60 years ago, which I see now is very recent. Comparable and worse things are happening at this exact moment, and I can't save anyone. There's nothing I can do to for people now, and I can't save the ghosts. I can't stop thinking about how scared they are, and how much pain they're in. I hope and hope and hope that the person I keep seeing in Dachau was dead when the photograph was taken.
Some people are confused when I tell them I'm half German and very Jewish. They don't understand why I'm learning the language and why I love the country so much. "Isn't that an oxymoron?" No, it's not. My grandparents would have never survived without their German friends. So many wonderful, beautiful, majestic things have been born from that part of the world, and nothing will ever change that, ever.
I know now that I've never been safe, but I am just aware of it now. No one is garenteed safety, anywhere, ever. I know this is nothing new. I also know now that my guilt for living a happy, healthy, and easy life isn't going to bring anyone back or save anyone else. No amount of concentrating will save that man in the photograph from unfathomable pain. I may not deserve to live in my grandparents' beautiful house, but I don't need to mentally beat myself up for it so I feel that I've suffered enough to have earned it. I'm lucky. I'm alive.
There's been Hell and Heaven, all in the same place. The photograph from Dachau is the worst thing I've seen in my entire life. I know that my grandparents saw things like that on a daily basis for over a year. Yet, their nightmare didn't overpower their love of their homeland. The evil doesn't counteract the good. I don't know what I'm trying to say.
7.24.2008
6.13.2008
Higher Learning
I went to an acting school a few weeks ago to speak with their admissions person about what classes I should take. They have an "acting intensive" program, which lasts two years and costs $10,000, but I felt that taking that whole thing would be backtracking (not to mention unnecessarily expensive--my entire college tuition was $10,000). We decided that I would audit a class and see how I felt about my skills versus what was being taught, and then reevaluate my situation.
Well, that class was on Monday, and today is Friday. My therapist would say that my subconscious didn't want to attend, and I "forgot" because it was easier than calling to cancel. Usually, when she says I did this sort of thing, I brush it off as psychoanalytical hooey, but I think she may be onto something this time--I really didn't want to go.
I'm not scared of attending a prestigious acting school, like I had originally thought. I'm not even worried about spending a few thousand dollars on higher education--graduate school is usually more than that. What I didn't like was the interview.
I will gladly and loudly admit that I don't know everything about acting, and that my craft could really use more honing (hence my interview in the first place). But, I'd given her my resume--my 9pt, full page resume, spanning 8 years--and she continued to tell me the importance of training and experience. But, I know. That's why I was there. I was seeking out further training to expand what I already knew.
It's no big surprise that I get very peeved when I'm told what I already know, and I very often feel conflicted whether it's warranted or not. Should I have smiled politely instead of interjecting with, "I used to teach acting," when she told me I'd need to learn about beats? Should I have not said, "I minored in Theatre," when she told me I'd always need to have my lines memorized? Should my heart have not beat wildly when she told me I had no training? Should I have simply brushed our interview aside as just a memorized marketing technique and understood that she probably talks to 10 different star-struck 18-year-olds a day?
Either way:
While I'm thankful that my subconscious saved me from a potentially boring Monday evening, I'm embarrassed I just didn't show up. I think it's been too long to send an email saying something like, "Sorry, dudes! Guess I just don't care enough!" On the other hand, I'm going to take this experience as a little nod from the gods that I need to follow my instincts and continue expanding my acting career via alternative theater and comedy. Thanks.
Well, that class was on Monday, and today is Friday. My therapist would say that my subconscious didn't want to attend, and I "forgot" because it was easier than calling to cancel. Usually, when she says I did this sort of thing, I brush it off as psychoanalytical hooey, but I think she may be onto something this time--I really didn't want to go.
I'm not scared of attending a prestigious acting school, like I had originally thought. I'm not even worried about spending a few thousand dollars on higher education--graduate school is usually more than that. What I didn't like was the interview.
I will gladly and loudly admit that I don't know everything about acting, and that my craft could really use more honing (hence my interview in the first place). But, I'd given her my resume--my 9pt, full page resume, spanning 8 years--and she continued to tell me the importance of training and experience. But, I know. That's why I was there. I was seeking out further training to expand what I already knew.
It's no big surprise that I get very peeved when I'm told what I already know, and I very often feel conflicted whether it's warranted or not. Should I have smiled politely instead of interjecting with, "I used to teach acting," when she told me I'd need to learn about beats? Should I have not said, "I minored in Theatre," when she told me I'd always need to have my lines memorized? Should my heart have not beat wildly when she told me I had no training? Should I have simply brushed our interview aside as just a memorized marketing technique and understood that she probably talks to 10 different star-struck 18-year-olds a day?
Either way:
While I'm thankful that my subconscious saved me from a potentially boring Monday evening, I'm embarrassed I just didn't show up. I think it's been too long to send an email saying something like, "Sorry, dudes! Guess I just don't care enough!" On the other hand, I'm going to take this experience as a little nod from the gods that I need to follow my instincts and continue expanding my acting career via alternative theater and comedy. Thanks.
6.05.2008
Did you know...?
...that the average American eats 10 pounds of chocolate per year?
...San Francisco is the 36th most expensive city in the world?
...that Golden Gate Park's flora is growing out of old horse poo?
...the Great Wall of China is curvy so ghosts can't walk on it, as ghosts can only walk in a straight line?
...that you can destroy a zombie by hanging a small bag containing 10 nuts on your front door because zombies can only count to 9 and they get confused and keep counting until the sun comes up, which makes them dead-dead instead of un-dead?
...there are 49 hills within San Francisco's 49 square miles?
...the original definition of the word "idiot" was someone who didn't vote?
...that "meat" once meant food in general?
...Jewish people comprise of about .25% of the world and 2% of America?
...cottonseed oil isn't considered a food by the FDA so really harsh pesticides can be used on its crops?
I heard these things somewhere.
...San Francisco is the 36th most expensive city in the world?
...that Golden Gate Park's flora is growing out of old horse poo?
...the Great Wall of China is curvy so ghosts can't walk on it, as ghosts can only walk in a straight line?
...that you can destroy a zombie by hanging a small bag containing 10 nuts on your front door because zombies can only count to 9 and they get confused and keep counting until the sun comes up, which makes them dead-dead instead of un-dead?
...there are 49 hills within San Francisco's 49 square miles?
...the original definition of the word "idiot" was someone who didn't vote?
...that "meat" once meant food in general?
...Jewish people comprise of about .25% of the world and 2% of America?
...cottonseed oil isn't considered a food by the FDA so really harsh pesticides can be used on its crops?
I heard these things somewhere.
5.30.2008
ACTING!!!! (The early years...)
My first acting role was as Fred the Dog in my nursery school's production of The Grandfather Clock (or something like that). My character was named after our neighbor and I'd chosen to be a dog myself, but I'm not sure why, as I was pretty terrified of all dogs at that age. I'd drawn a character represenation of Fred on a piece of construction paper around my neck. I couldn't quite remember how many legs a dog had, so I just drew in a lot to be on the safe side. I hit all my marks, barked whenever the clock struck ("BONG, BONG, BONG!!!"), and was, we all can agree, a total hit.
Several years and bit parts later, I finally landed the titular role of Pinocchio in Amelia Earhart Elementary After School Drama Program. I was incredibly nervous, as it was the largest role I'd had by then (and one of the largest to date) and I had ALL these LINES to memorize. I would practice in my bedroom mirror for hours after school, but my nerves were completely wracked by opening night. I tried to calm down by running and jumping all over the house, to which my parents responded by telling me to stop being such a drama queen, which was silly, because that was exactly the point. I still remember the opening monologue...
enter stage left, skipping
I'm on my way, I'm on my way, I'm on my way to school today.
beat, face audience
I'm on my way to school! It's my very first day. I have a new hat that Geppetto made, a new coat that Geppetto made; in fact, Geppetto made me. I am a puppet!
These lines have been stuck in my head for the past 16 years, and I pass the burden onto you, Cyberspace. (After my parents saw the play and understood that I was, indeed, The Star, they said that the running, jumping, and general Drama Queenness was perfectly understandable. "We didn't realize you were the lead." "But I said I was Pinoccio in the play of the same name..." "Yeah, well, you know.")
I played Becky Thatcher in my junior high school production of Tom and Huck. I had to share the role with my friend Alison and there were whisperings that I only got the part because of the convenient character name. This definitely was a breakout role for me as I had my very first on-stage kiss. Rey, the campus supervisor/drama assistant, coached "Tom" and me on how to deal with getting within cootie distance of each other. "It's not a big deal," he insisted. "Just pretend he's your mom. You kiss her, right?" All of Rey's helpful advice was in vain and I didn't actually, physically, touch Tom's cheek with my lips until opening night, and even then, it was debatable.
Next up was Mrs. Stevenson in the One Act Play Festival my sophomore year of high school. The play was called Sorry, Wrong Number, but was basically a playization of the novelization of the film Dial M for Murder. Or did the book come first? Either way, the play taught me all about old phone numbers (Mr. Stephenson's was Murray Hill 40098) and how to screeeeeeam. This was the very first role in which I was murdered!
I played The Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland (my old friend Alison snagged that lead) and received an award for it! According to said award, I was an excellent actor. I don't remember much outside my own excellence, other than the scene where The Queen threw her shoes at her annoying subjects, to which my friend Brian would always say, "Who throws a shoe?" (Austin Powers had recently been in theaters.) The shoe throwing scene was my very favorite because this ritual, until the shoe actually hit someone in the face, and she cried.
I don't remember when I played the old, wise Badger in The Wind in the Willows, but I'd pretty much mentally checked out of school by then. My motivation in that play was to simply not break character whenever I had scenes with Max, who was playing Toad. Max didn't make this easy for me, and triumphantly succeeded in my giggle fit closing night after he entered the stage in a succession of pirouettes.
(Digression: Max's parents were both actors, and his dad was always in the [very impressive] civic light opera. The reviews for his role in Little Shop of Horrors had called him "an actor's actor" and I would sometimes hear him announcing this when I'd call Max on the phone. One time I'd said something like, "Tell him that I am too!!" and he retorted, "No, she's not; she just stands on stage and laughs!!" Touche.)
By the time I was a senior in High School, I had been treasurer, vice president, and ultimately PRESIDENT OF THE DRAMA CLUB! One would think that this level of dedication and, let's face it, pure talent would help me land bigger and better roles, but despite my high profile position, people still had no idea who I was. The jocks had taken wind of the Theatre Department and had infiltrated our sanctuary. This all turned out to be fine, because instead of being cast in Sweet Charity, I was cast in The Bald Soprano (the coolest play ever) as Mary the Maid.
The Bald Soprano, by Eugene Ionesco, was (we learned) based upon a French English-language workbook and most of its lines were directly from the lessons. Our director, Miriam, was a freakishly brilliant person and was able to direct Ionesco's play into complete coherence. It wasn't silly, it wasn't weird; it was funny as all hell and it made total sense. MY role was a small but funny bit, and I was beaten to death at the end. I had a classmate in the drama class who always cheered a little too heartily after I'd left the stage--I could never figure out if he'd enjoyed my performance or he was super stoked on my death.
Coming up next (or whenever): THE MIDDLE YEARS!
Several years and bit parts later, I finally landed the titular role of Pinocchio in Amelia Earhart Elementary After School Drama Program. I was incredibly nervous, as it was the largest role I'd had by then (and one of the largest to date) and I had ALL these LINES to memorize. I would practice in my bedroom mirror for hours after school, but my nerves were completely wracked by opening night. I tried to calm down by running and jumping all over the house, to which my parents responded by telling me to stop being such a drama queen, which was silly, because that was exactly the point. I still remember the opening monologue...
enter stage left, skipping
I'm on my way, I'm on my way, I'm on my way to school today.
beat, face audience
I'm on my way to school! It's my very first day. I have a new hat that Geppetto made, a new coat that Geppetto made; in fact, Geppetto made me. I am a puppet!
These lines have been stuck in my head for the past 16 years, and I pass the burden onto you, Cyberspace. (After my parents saw the play and understood that I was, indeed, The Star, they said that the running, jumping, and general Drama Queenness was perfectly understandable. "We didn't realize you were the lead." "But I said I was Pinoccio in the play of the same name..." "Yeah, well, you know.")
I played Becky Thatcher in my junior high school production of Tom and Huck. I had to share the role with my friend Alison and there were whisperings that I only got the part because of the convenient character name. This definitely was a breakout role for me as I had my very first on-stage kiss. Rey, the campus supervisor/drama assistant, coached "Tom" and me on how to deal with getting within cootie distance of each other. "It's not a big deal," he insisted. "Just pretend he's your mom. You kiss her, right?" All of Rey's helpful advice was in vain and I didn't actually, physically, touch Tom's cheek with my lips until opening night, and even then, it was debatable.
Next up was Mrs. Stevenson in the One Act Play Festival my sophomore year of high school. The play was called Sorry, Wrong Number, but was basically a playization of the novelization of the film Dial M for Murder. Or did the book come first? Either way, the play taught me all about old phone numbers (Mr. Stephenson's was Murray Hill 40098) and how to screeeeeeam. This was the very first role in which I was murdered!
I played The Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland (my old friend Alison snagged that lead) and received an award for it! According to said award, I was an excellent actor. I don't remember much outside my own excellence, other than the scene where The Queen threw her shoes at her annoying subjects, to which my friend Brian would always say, "Who throws a shoe?" (Austin Powers had recently been in theaters.) The shoe throwing scene was my very favorite because this ritual, until the shoe actually hit someone in the face, and she cried.
I don't remember when I played the old, wise Badger in The Wind in the Willows, but I'd pretty much mentally checked out of school by then. My motivation in that play was to simply not break character whenever I had scenes with Max, who was playing Toad. Max didn't make this easy for me, and triumphantly succeeded in my giggle fit closing night after he entered the stage in a succession of pirouettes.
(Digression: Max's parents were both actors, and his dad was always in the [very impressive] civic light opera. The reviews for his role in Little Shop of Horrors had called him "an actor's actor" and I would sometimes hear him announcing this when I'd call Max on the phone. One time I'd said something like, "Tell him that I am too!!" and he retorted, "No, she's not; she just stands on stage and laughs!!" Touche.)
By the time I was a senior in High School, I had been treasurer, vice president, and ultimately PRESIDENT OF THE DRAMA CLUB! One would think that this level of dedication and, let's face it, pure talent would help me land bigger and better roles, but despite my high profile position, people still had no idea who I was. The jocks had taken wind of the Theatre Department and had infiltrated our sanctuary. This all turned out to be fine, because instead of being cast in Sweet Charity, I was cast in The Bald Soprano (the coolest play ever) as Mary the Maid.
The Bald Soprano, by Eugene Ionesco, was (we learned) based upon a French English-language workbook and most of its lines were directly from the lessons. Our director, Miriam, was a freakishly brilliant person and was able to direct Ionesco's play into complete coherence. It wasn't silly, it wasn't weird; it was funny as all hell and it made total sense. MY role was a small but funny bit, and I was beaten to death at the end. I had a classmate in the drama class who always cheered a little too heartily after I'd left the stage--I could never figure out if he'd enjoyed my performance or he was super stoked on my death.
Coming up next (or whenever): THE MIDDLE YEARS!
5.23.2008
Live at Mark Romyn's Thursday Night Combo Show at the Exit Theatre
We played Pop Song '08, Gates of Steel, and Everyday is Like Sunday (complete with sing-a-long!). I messed up a lot, but it didn't seem to matter much. Lynette took pictures.
5.13.2008
Spriiiiiingtiiiiiiime...
There must be something said for vitamin D because I just feel like a freaking sunbeam right now. It's in the upper 70s and sunny today, and I just spent my lunch break wandering around the Ferry Building and Justin Herman Plaza. I bought an Asian pear for my break, Ganache for Lips for, well, my lips, and a supercute summertime beanie for the coldest winter we've ever spent.
(Upon eating said pear, I found the insides to be black and mushy, even though the proprietor picked out a "good one" for me.)
I want to remember today because I felt that fuzzy feeling between my heart and my stomach which usually means everything is perfect and I have nothing to worry about. It's nice.
(Upon eating said pear, I found the insides to be black and mushy, even though the proprietor picked out a "good one" for me.)
I want to remember today because I felt that fuzzy feeling between my heart and my stomach which usually means everything is perfect and I have nothing to worry about. It's nice.
5.12.2008
Two very similiar ideas:
My senior year of high school was spent in the guise of Amelia Fletcher: super short hair, oversized glasses, and striped t-shirts. The A-line skirts were usually swapped for brown StaPrests (Alameda still got cold) and I'd top everything off with a hoodie, sweater, or jean jacket. I was walking to school one day, swinging my JAL carry-on bag, thinking I looked so cute, when I overheard two girls behind me:
Girl #1: I like that boy's bag.
Girl #2 (whispering): That's a girl.
CUT TO
Derek and I were walking to catch a train on our way to a Raccoons show. Arm in arm; both wearing normal, super casual clothes. As we crossed Taraval, a dude leaned out of his packed car and screamed, "GAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY!"
Honestly, I thought at first he had said, "Yay!" and was just really excited to be driving around the Sunset at night. But no, he thought I was a boy. Well, he either thought that I was a tiny, curvaceous boy or that Derek was a gigantic, bearded lady.
Should I be concentrating on the blatant homophobia of the last event, or is it reasonable for me to stamp my foot, arms akimbo, and demand why I've been mistaken for a boy, twice in the past 9 years? Do I need to shrug off the social constructs of gender identity and embrace my androgyny? Do I need to have long hair and a ball gown in which to walk to the train station to be recognisable as a pretty, female lady? Should it matter?
I have a very handsome boyfriend who thinks I'm beautiful. I've been paid to model and I've been cast in acting roles that describe my character as "pretty." I've also been told that while I'm cute, I'm not tall enough to to be sexy or beautiful. Why do the negative comments by people I couldn't care less about negate the feelings of most important person in my life? AND WHY DO I CARE IN THE FIRST PLACE??
Girl #1: I like that boy's bag.
Girl #2 (whispering): That's a girl.
CUT TO
Derek and I were walking to catch a train on our way to a Raccoons show. Arm in arm; both wearing normal, super casual clothes. As we crossed Taraval, a dude leaned out of his packed car and screamed, "GAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY!"
Honestly, I thought at first he had said, "Yay!" and was just really excited to be driving around the Sunset at night. But no, he thought I was a boy. Well, he either thought that I was a tiny, curvaceous boy or that Derek was a gigantic, bearded lady.
Should I be concentrating on the blatant homophobia of the last event, or is it reasonable for me to stamp my foot, arms akimbo, and demand why I've been mistaken for a boy, twice in the past 9 years? Do I need to shrug off the social constructs of gender identity and embrace my androgyny? Do I need to have long hair and a ball gown in which to walk to the train station to be recognisable as a pretty, female lady? Should it matter?
I have a very handsome boyfriend who thinks I'm beautiful. I've been paid to model and I've been cast in acting roles that describe my character as "pretty." I've also been told that while I'm cute, I'm not tall enough to to be sexy or beautiful. Why do the negative comments by people I couldn't care less about negate the feelings of most important person in my life? AND WHY DO I CARE IN THE FIRST PLACE??
5.08.2008
Two completely separate ideas:
If I were a Humanities professor, I would have a class entirely about Tales of the City and its influence and mirroring of San Francisco's then zeitgeist. I'd also have a class about Friends and American ideals and morals around the turn of the century (I'd DEFINITELY have that phrase in the bulletin). I'd also have a class comparing and contrasting Red Dwarf and Futurama, and if there's time, another about The Perks of Being a Wallflower and Freaks and Geeks. And also...
The most efficient way to stop a small child from throwing a tantrum is to turn said child upside down and gently sway them from side to side. Kids freaking love to be upside down, and they're usually stunned into happy silence long enough to choke out a few remaining sobs before a reluctant giggle. Turn them ride-side up, and they forget what they were crying about in the fist place. It's not unlike clearing an Etch-a-Sketch. For more serious tantrums, nothing beats a bear hug.
5.01.2008
But Becky, why did you decide to start subbing?
I began college with a major in Theater Arts. It started off positively, but I started hearing, "The theater department is your life," several times too many and I had to switch. I mean, yes, I love acting and I loved theatre, but my entire life? They weren't exaggerating either. Those people ate, drank, slept, and made out with The THEATRE. It was impressive, and I really did wish I could do the same, but I'm cynical and lazy and I couldn't swing the curriculum or the social aspect. I became a Humanities major after my second year.
Admittedly, I chose Humanities because I already had a good chunk of credits towards a degree. It was, above and beyond, the easiest and most fun subject I'd EVER studied, and it left me with a new, tingly sensation of enjoying school. Here are a few examples of assignments I had:
1. compare Bladerunner and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
2. watch and analyze Tampopo, then compare it to Tokyo Story
3. read and then write about Louis Armstrong's autobiography
4. go to the Legion of Honor and make a website about the Parisian art
5. my senior thesis compared Berkeley's People Park riots to Logan's Run
6. cook and eat indigenous New Orleans food (I made spicy puffed pastry!)
Basically, I learned about interesting things to tell people at cocktail parties. I had no job skills when I graduated. The Humanities program basically taught me how to think, and granted me the power to over-analyze absolutely anything. (Seriously: I can spell out how Ratatouille is an allegory for American imperialism, and you will agree with me.) Because of my vast general knowledge and basic algebra skills, I decided to become a substitute teacher to supplement my erratic acting career.
Admittedly, I chose Humanities because I already had a good chunk of credits towards a degree. It was, above and beyond, the easiest and most fun subject I'd EVER studied, and it left me with a new, tingly sensation of enjoying school. Here are a few examples of assignments I had:
1. compare Bladerunner and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
2. watch and analyze Tampopo, then compare it to Tokyo Story
3. read and then write about Louis Armstrong's autobiography
4. go to the Legion of Honor and make a website about the Parisian art
5. my senior thesis compared Berkeley's People Park riots to Logan's Run
6. cook and eat indigenous New Orleans food (I made spicy puffed pastry!)
Basically, I learned about interesting things to tell people at cocktail parties. I had no job skills when I graduated. The Humanities program basically taught me how to think, and granted me the power to over-analyze absolutely anything. (Seriously: I can spell out how Ratatouille is an allegory for American imperialism, and you will agree with me.) Because of my vast general knowledge and basic algebra skills, I decided to become a substitute teacher to supplement my erratic acting career.
4.28.2008
A Psychic and her Healing Crystals
I just came back from my lunch break. As I was eating my greasy, delicious, tiny, and overpriced Pad Thai, a woman dropped a flyer on my table and told me that she was a psychic, and I should come see her. "I get a strong feeling from you," she said, tapping my shoulder and walking away.
My first reaction was, "Of course you get a strong feeling from me; I'm very complex." Also, I just kind of look like I'm interested in counter-culture and New Age-y things. I have very thick glasses and a funky (read: overgrown) hairdo.
I do think the idea of psychics is really interesting. I really like contemplating the possibility of my own past lives and telepathy. And plus, it's impossible to prove something doesn't exist, so I figure that if science can approve dark matter, I can believe in dimensions and plains where energy exists in another form. Could the psychic sense that, I wondered?
As soon as I got back to my desk, I pulled out her flyer and read the back: I have helped many people with life changing problems. Why should you suffer any longer?
Wait, what? Do I look like I have problems? Do I look like I'm suffering?? She wasn't honing in on my open mind; she just thought I looked sad! I'm not sad!! I mean, I was, like a month ago, but now everything is great! I have this awesome job, my boyfriend is a total babe, and we've just rearranged our home into a super sweet pad. That's the Becky Happiness Trifecta!
Anyway. Maybe she could sense my complexity. Or maybe I should just smile more.
My first reaction was, "Of course you get a strong feeling from me; I'm very complex." Also, I just kind of look like I'm interested in counter-culture and New Age-y things. I have very thick glasses and a funky (read: overgrown) hairdo.
I do think the idea of psychics is really interesting. I really like contemplating the possibility of my own past lives and telepathy. And plus, it's impossible to prove something doesn't exist, so I figure that if science can approve dark matter, I can believe in dimensions and plains where energy exists in another form. Could the psychic sense that, I wondered?
As soon as I got back to my desk, I pulled out her flyer and read the back: I have helped many people with life changing problems. Why should you suffer any longer?
Wait, what? Do I look like I have problems? Do I look like I'm suffering?? She wasn't honing in on my open mind; she just thought I looked sad! I'm not sad!! I mean, I was, like a month ago, but now everything is great! I have this awesome job, my boyfriend is a total babe, and we've just rearranged our home into a super sweet pad. That's the Becky Happiness Trifecta!
Anyway. Maybe she could sense my complexity. Or maybe I should just smile more.
4.24.2008
Sweet 16, apparently
I got tagged! Thanks, Georgia!!
What was I doing ten years ago?
Picture it! Alameda, 1998! Up until this point, there had been absolutely nothing to report: my friends were, for the most part, acquaintances and I filled my time daydreaming about Depeche Mode. School was boring; everything was dumb. Around 1998, however, things kinda started picking up.
I divided my time equally between Drama Club, all-ages Britpop and pop-punk shows, and Twee Kitten's CutieClub chat room. I'd had my first and only kiss (and subsequent heartbreak), I finally had friends and peers with whom I shared common interests, I was still young enough to ask "celebrities" for autographs. My partner-in-crime, Teresa, and I would go to every signing, free show, and event that we could find. We scoured The List every week for hints of The Longpigs or Mr T Experience. We braved the rolling eyes at Mod Lang and brought snacks for whoever was working at Lookout!(.) Man, we were cool. Or maybe we were nerds. I don't know; I can't speak for Teresa. I felt that even though we didn't really fit in with the "older" crowd, we had each other, and I had found, for the very first time, a niche in which I belonged.
Oh wow, this entry turned out to be a lot more uplifting than I had originally thought it would be.
What was I doing ten years ago?
Picture it! Alameda, 1998! Up until this point, there had been absolutely nothing to report: my friends were, for the most part, acquaintances and I filled my time daydreaming about Depeche Mode. School was boring; everything was dumb. Around 1998, however, things kinda started picking up.
I divided my time equally between Drama Club, all-ages Britpop and pop-punk shows, and Twee Kitten's CutieClub chat room. I'd had my first and only kiss (and subsequent heartbreak), I finally had friends and peers with whom I shared common interests, I was still young enough to ask "celebrities" for autographs. My partner-in-crime, Teresa, and I would go to every signing, free show, and event that we could find. We scoured The List every week for hints of The Longpigs or Mr T Experience. We braved the rolling eyes at Mod Lang and brought snacks for whoever was working at Lookout!(.) Man, we were cool. Or maybe we were nerds. I don't know; I can't speak for Teresa. I felt that even though we didn't really fit in with the "older" crowd, we had each other, and I had found, for the very first time, a niche in which I belonged.
Oh wow, this entry turned out to be a lot more uplifting than I had originally thought it would be.
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